


Watchpoint

by itsmethevoid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ... ontology? idk, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, cyborg, this is just a deliciously self-indulgent fic abt angsty Genji don't worry about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:16:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmethevoid/pseuds/itsmethevoid
Summary: Eating; bathing; brushing one's teeth. There are always little human things to do. "Transformed into a living weapon, Genji single-mindedly set about the task of dismantling his family's criminal empire. At some point he was stationed at Watchpoint: Gibraltar."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Took some liberties filling in the Overwatch timeline. Now it's more dramatic. Posted this from a Google Doc on mobile, so sorry if the format's weird.

There are always little human things to do.

Genji stands in front of the tiny mirror, running floss between his teeth. He knows most of them are fake - pearly, smooth ceramic - but there are a few of his real human teeth still in there. His lips, stretched wide, are crossed with just a few scars. After the initial punch, his brother had left his face mostly alone. Comparatively.

Genji grimaces at his reflection, wishing there was some way to do this faster. He hates looking at his face. His soft flesh seems so irrelevant, so obsolete. He shifts his jaw from side to side - why had Dr. Ziegler not simply replaced everything? What was the point of leaving his face?

He finishes with the floss, dropping it delicately in the wastebin near the sink, and runs his wet pink tongue along his teeth. Despite being one of the few remaining parts of his body that had belonged to the original model, it looks so alien and out of place. His new self - all weapon - doesn't need a tongue. Doesn't need teeth, lips, eyebrows, a nose. All he needs is his blade, his throwing stars, his speed, his inhuman agility.

Genji laughs at that thought. “Inhuman,” he mutters, leaning forward to cup the running water in his hands. It beads strangely over his hydrophobic synthetic skin, and he brings it up to his lips. He meets his own eyes as he swirls the water in his mouth. What an absurdly _human_ ritual. Spitting it out, he wipes his mouth with a towel - so strange to feel touch on skin, so intimate and real, not mediated by artificial nerves.

There is a certain relief in closing his visor over that foreign human face. It doesn't look like his face anymore. He is a different person now - perhaps not even a person anymore. _Yes_ , he thinks, staring at the mirrored visor _\- a soldier, a person-shaped weapon that doesn't need a face, doesn't need a tongue, hardly needs a name_. He reaches behind his shoulder and his fingers close comfortingly around his blade. He remembers training with it as a child, but can't quite recall whether he was skillful or not. Now, with his new, stronger arms, his enhanced reflexes, it feels like an extension of his body. And, really, it practically is. How thoughtful of Dr. Ziegler to design his new right hand with magnetic grooves for his ōdachi. He wouldn't be surprised if she had programmed his synthetic muscle fibers with some type of fighting software to make him even more effective.

Almost as an afterthought, he turns off the running water. Hangs the towel back up on the hook. Flexes his fingers, rotates his head, rolls his shoulders, listens for the whir of the fans under his vents. He's ready.

 

“Oh, eat with us, Genji,” calls Reinhardt Wilhelm, hunched enormously over a tray piled with mashed potatoes and meat.

Genji pauses. His own tray - chicken and potatoes in small, carefully measured portions - feels absurd in his fingers. He turns and regards Reinhardt, thankful that his visor makes his expression impossible to read.

“You always eat alone!” The huge man’s thick accent is even more obscured by a mouthful of peas. “I've been here two months and I feel I hardly know you!”

Dr. Ziegler flashes him a warning look, but Ana Amari - unwashed face caked with dried blood from earlier - joins in. “You've barely got anything on your plate. Come here, let’s feed you properly.”

“I don't need to … eat very much,” he says haltingly. It feels odd to talk to his comrades off the battlefield. He knows how to communicate in short, information-heavy sentences - _they're on the payload, turret ahead_ , etc. He listens to them exchange banter sometimes, but never partakes- it's not his job. He is to run behind enemy lines, slashing and leaping and throwing to thin them out. _Takes more concentration than holding up a shield_ , he thinks, and is shocked by this flash of his own conceitedness. Feels uncomfortably like his old human self.

“Genji prefers to eat in his room,” Dr. Ziegler says, voice measured.

“Oh, come, Genji, we don't bite.” Ana’s smile is warm and welcoming, even behind the blood on her face. Jesse McCree - the young American who had recently joined Blackwatch - huffs a little, but scoots to the side and pats the space between him and Dr. Ziegler.

Genji’s commitment to politeness compels him to approach the table and sit. Setting his tray down, he winces at the embarrassing clatter.

“You're really something on the battlefield, Genji,” Ana says gently.

“Thank you, Miss Amari.” He resists the urge to fidget.

“ _Please_ , call me Ana.” She smiles again, openly, then turns back to her food.

“It's an _honor_ to fight alongside you, son,” Reinhardt rumbles, that overused word ringing loudly in the room. “After all you've been through, you're still so dedicated. And it's your former clan we’re fighting out there.”

Genji becomes aware of Dr. Ziegler’s hand on his leg as her fingers tighten. How much do his comrades know of his past? His name is still recorded as Shimada in all the Overwatch documentation, of course, but had Morrison and Dr. Ziegler told them _everything?_ He’s the one with all the access codes to the Shimada databases (sloppy of them not to change the passwords after all this time), the one who knows why they want access to the orbital launch facility at Gibraltar. But do they know that those codes were only disclosed to the Shimada elites? Do they know who he had been? Do they know why he climbs to the highest points on the field, searching desperately, futilely, for a tall figure, the glint of an arrow, the stretch of a bow?

“You've got no peas on your tray,” Ana intervenes mercifully, somehow sensing the cyborg’s discomfort. “Here,” she adds, spooning a generous helping next to his mashed potatoes.

“Thank you,” Genji says, even though he doesn't need peas to sustain himself. Calories and protein - that's all the biological components of his body need. The rest of him is powered the same way omnics are - a very small nuclear reactor wedged in right behind his human heart. He reaches for a fork and, as a gesture of goodwill, scoops up some peas and nods at Ana.

There is a sudden quiet. Genji glances questioningly at Dr. Ziegler, whose jaw tightens.

Ah.

They have never seen below his visor. Genji has hidden his human face like a well-kept secret, even from himself; he removes the visor only to eat, to brush his teeth, to wash it. He much prefers the faceless machine that the mirror shows - he doesn't have to think about his former life, his injuries, the ugliness of his scarred skin. With his visor on, it is so easy to fall into a single-minded fury: destroy the Shimadas, destroy the Shimadas, destroy the Shimadas. Among the Shimadas to destroy: Genji, reckless playboy, purposeless philanderer, disgrace to the clan, dead almost two years now. In his place: a cyborg warrior built only to fight, who does not need a past, does not need a face, does not need his comrades’ pity.

All of their eyes are on him as he reaches behind his head, suddenly clumsy in performing such a mundane action. He has no choice - what is he to do, take his tray and suddenly leave? They must not be allowed know the shame that plagues him, the revulsion. If only he could be done with the nonsense of his old life. If only he could fully become the mindless fighting machine his body manifests.

His visor comes off with a familiar click, and he lays it gently on the table next to his tray. He keeps his eyes down, watches his carbon fiber fingers curl around his fork. Smoothly, grateful for his perfect motor skills, he raises the fork to his mouth - opens his lips -

“ _Jesse_ ,” hisses Ana, kicking the American under the table, and Genji’s fork falls noisily to the ground.

A small silence. “Sorry,” McCree mutters, and out of the corner of his eye Genji sees him going red. “Didn’ mean to stare.”

Sheer willpower keeps Genji’s lower lip from trembling. He lowers his hands to his lap and stares at them, listening to his cooling fans whine as they try to regulate his rising temperature.

“You can use my fork,” says Dr. Ziegler, offering it to him elegantly. “I'm not very hungry anyway.”

He cannot bring himself to move. Any movement might betray him. There is no telling what his limbs might do.

Reinhardt shifts, armor clanking. “It's … alright, Genji.” Somehow the hesitant charity in _his_ voice feels like the worst betrayal. Genji allows his gaze to flicker upwards - they're all leaned in close, eyes averted politely or (in the case of Dr. Ziegler) wide with concern.

He stands suddenly, snatching his visor from the table. “I’ll just - I will eat in my room,” he announces too loudly, too quickly, his sentence sounding like a retreat. Awkwardly, bending at the waist with a litheness that advertises his inhuman flexibility, he retrieves his dropped fork and slams it back on the table, making everyone jump. “I - I'm -”

It's too much, then, and he turns, bounding on cybernetic legs through the doors - up the stairs - down the hallway - and finally he is safe behind his locked door, closing his visor over his face before the tears can come.

 

Genji cried too much in the first months of his new life. It is shameful to remember how he mourned his old body, his old lifestyle. _Useless_ , Genji thinks vehemently, scrubbing himself with warm water to remove the dust and blood of the day. He usually bathes after eating, but he left his tray of food on the table between Dr. Ziegler and McCree, and there is no way he is going to return for it.

He runs the warm washcloth over his shoulders, replaying the events of today's battle in his mind. Simple defense. The Shimadas want to get into Gibraltar; Overwatch (with the help of a few Blackwatch operatives) keeps them out. With the Omnic Crisis losing steam everywhere except Russia, the Shimadas know they must fill the power vacuum.

 _We’ve already filled it_ , Genji thinks with a smirk. So satisfying to finally find himself one step ahead instead of always trailing behind.

The assault on Gibraltar is the Shimadas’ main focus now. Any day their fearless leader will appear on some rooftop, arrow drawn, finally joining the front lines. How relieved they will be. How glad to see him, proud heir to the throne, willing to sacrifice _anything_ for the good of the clan.

How they will cry when Genji slays him.

He has played this moment over and over in his mind. He will force his brother to his knees, blade at his throat, cold and expressionless behind the visor.

 _Who are you?_ Hanzo will ask, choked and desperate. Genji will turn his head coolly, refusing an answer. He is nobody. He is vengeance. He is a living weapon.

Now the delicate part. Genji slips his fingers under a panel at the base of his neck and scrubs carefully at the wires underneath. Dirt and sweat collect there sometimes; he must keep his fragile inner workings clean and functioning properly. As he works, the image of pink-faced McCree swims unannounced to the front of his mind. _Didn’ mean to stare._ Genji feels heat rushing to his cheeks as he fiddles with the wires of his artificial spine (a prickly, tedious sensation). What right did that cocky American have? Why did they have to call him over to eat in the first place?

A soft knock at his door causes Genji to remove his hand suddenly, leaving a strange twinge in his neck and a staticky taste on his tongue. “Hello?” he calls.

“You left your tray,” comes Dr. Ziegler’s voice. Genji’s cheeks flush again, but he opens the door and she steps carefully inside. “I need to make sure you're eating,” she says serenely, and Genji nods his thanks.

“I am sorry for fleeing earlier.” His throat feels tight. He swallows.

“It's alright, Genji.” She places the tray on the floor where he usually eats. “They didn't know.” Before she leaves, she turns back to him: “How are you feeling?”

He knows what she means - she had tried to get him to see a psychologist before, and he had ardently refused. Again, he doesn't allow her the satisfaction: “I am in perfect working order.”

She gives him that look - unwilling to have this fight again, but still feeling some element of sorrow. Of pity.

Genji looks away as she shuts the door.

 

A warmth all through his joints signals Dr. Ziegler’s arrival next to him. The wings of her Valkyrie suit fold behind her - she must have flown all the way to the top of this lookout to heal him.

“Thank you,” says Genji absently, rolling his rejuvenated shoulders and scanning the horizon one more time.

There is a silence between them as Dr. Ziegler - now Mercy, only Mercy on the battlefield - finishes with her Caduceus staff. Then: “What will you do if you find him?”

“Kill him.”

“Mm.” She glances around them for danger, but the Shimadas seem to have backed off for now. “And what then?”

What then indeed? Genji struggles for a moment to imagine a life after he kills his brother, but somehow cannot. That is his sole purpose. It is why he was given his second chance. Not a second chance at _life_ , no - he was rebuilt practically from scratch to kill, and only to kill. To be an instrument of life’s antithesis.

He shakes his head at Mercy. “I am healed. There are others who need you more now.”

She sighs heavily, but doesn't protest. With a flare of wings she is gone, and Genji is alone again.

 _What then?_ He always imagined that when his purpose was complete he would simply cease to exist, like a discarded idea, like an old weapon they don't make the parts to anymore. What will he do? He can't simply go home - he has spent these years so fervently eliminating everything that word ever meant to him. He cannot re-enter society - not with a body like this. He flexes his fingers. Too close to an omnic for humans to trust; too human to belong with the omnics. Where will he go? Will Overwatch still need him - still _want_ him after he’s past his due date, like old bread?

Suddenly, an arrow - _an arrow!_ \- whizzes through the air and in that critical moment his arm fails to move, something has gone wrong somewhere in his spine - that twinge at the back of his neck, a static taste on his tongue, he must have somehow tangled his wires while cleaning them last night - the arrow burrows deep into his right shoulder and Genji is on the ground, curiously unable to move.

There is no pain. There should be pain. He stares at the arrow in his flesh - not his flesh, no, it sparks and spasms like any damaged machine. The arrow is in very deep, perhaps even puncturing the other side of him, but he recognizes the fletching. This is Hanzo’s arrow.

When Genji becomes aware that he is crying, the sobs start. One of his lungs struggles to inflate - the one that is partially synthetic, he assumes. Nothing will work, nothing will move. He stares at his shoulder, the smooth wooden arrow buried in it, the exposed circuitry, the pool of rancid liquid leaking from him - yellow and thin, not red and dark and thick -

He feels the urge to vomit. This arm is not his arm. It is bent unnaturally, curled in on itself, fingers twitching backwards - so alien, so absurdly inhuman - repulsive now in its malfunction, in its attachment to the nub of flesh at his neck which is slowly regaining feeling, he can feel it _twitching_ -

Genji becomes suddenly aware of just how much of him is artificial, and he cries out in horror. What has happened to him? What has _happened_ to him? A sling of organs and flesh wrapped in carbon fiber and circuitry, shaped crudely into a man - why can he not _move_? He cries for Mercy, but - of course, of _course_ \- his communication link is broken as well. The arrow mocks him from within his shoulder. He shuts his eyes, can't feel it there, can’t feel _anything_.

His brother had shot at a lone figure standing at a lookout. There is no way he knew it was Genji. Still, the arrow mocks him: _I've found you, brother_ , it hisses. Genji whimpers in response, biting hard on his scarred lip, tasting that familiar human blood.

He lies there for two hours until McCree finds him, splayed out and twitching, visor clogged with tears. Dr. Ziegler advises he be transferred back to Numbani for repairs. Not medical attention - _repairs_.

He lies there and the arrow taunts and whispers and digs, burrowing deep inside him, deep past the wires and the circuitry and the artificial flesh: _I've found you and you are still shameful. I’ve found you and you still do not know who you are. I've found you, brother, and you are still weak_.


End file.
